


I Won't Tell if You Don't

by theskywasblue



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day after Christmas when he comes home from a trip to the corner store for bread and milk to find Eames bleeding to death in his living room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Won't Tell if You Don't

**Author's Note:**

> for [](http://kansouame.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kansouame**](http://kansouame.dreamwidth.org/) as thanks for helping me through my recent writer's block. You're awesome!

New York is the city of Arthur's dreams - transmutable, equal parts terrifying and beautiful; sometimes home, sometimes a strange place full of people whose faces he could never hope to recognize.

It fits this last mould particularly around the holidays, when Arthur's _modus operandi_ is to barricade himself in his apartment for prolonged stretches and venture out of doors only under the cover of darkness, and then only to the local market and back, unless he's on a job.

He has a standing invitation to celebrate Christmas with Cobb and the children in LA, but it's never something he's been brave enough to attempt, because Mal's absence will always be like a broken tooth in the back of his mouth, painless until he worries the sharp edges with his tongue for too long, working the dying roots against his gums.

It's the day after Christmas when he comes home from a trip to the corner store for bread and milk to find Eames bleeding to death in his living room.

"Jesus Christ, Eames – my _rug_."

Eames looks pale and trapped, his gaze flitting to the floor where blood is dripping around his sock feet, and the whole left side of him is so covered in blood that Arthur can't even begin to pinpoint the actual injuries, which is usually something he's pretty good at.

"'m sorry," Eames slurs, "just let me..."

At least Arthur's depth of experience lets him know exactly when he should step forward to catch Eames before he brains himself on the edge of the coffee table.

***

For all that Arthur knows people who operate consistently outside the realm of the usual nine-to-five, he knows only a very select few actually within life-saving distance who are willing to make house calls after midnight.

Luckily, Mei Ling owes him a not inconsiderable favour.

She arrives within twenty minutes of his call, wearing a red cocktail dress and carrying an antique Gladstone bag, injects Eames with several syringes of illicit substances (it's always tricky, getting the mix right, Arthur knows from experience. The drugs they use in the PASIV do much more than just mess with their circadian rhythms and REM patterns) and sits on the ottoman, smoking a flavoured cigarillo while she sews up the deep gash under Eames' left armpit. Then she helps Arthur tuck Eames into his bed – since there isn't really any other choice; he’s not equipped for overnight visitors as such – and leaves him two bottles of pills with hand-written labels for when Eames wakes up.

Since Eames is in his bed, and there's blood on his couch, Arthur puts his Glock on the bedside table and folds himself into his armchair, wrapped in the hideous afghan his grandmother knit, and sleeps fitfully until morning.

***

“I’m sorry about all this. I was really hoping you wouldn’t be home.”

Arthur wrings the sponge out over Eames’ back, watches the water run down his skin and patter into the warm, shallow bathwater. Eames is a mess of bruises, so much so that it must hurt just for Arthur to touch him, but he’s not objecting. “So you were just planning to bleed to death, alone, on my floor?”

“I was aiming for the sofa, actually.”

“You could have gone to the hospital.” There are times when you just need to ignore the fact that you’re operating under a wanted alias and seek proper medical attention.

“Do you remember Prague?” Eames asks, suddenly.

Arthur dips the sponge again, tries carefully to clean a streak of something that looks like motor oil from the back of Eames’ neck. “ _Remember_ is probably a strong word...”

What he thinks Eames is referring to is the severe concussion he suffered due to a poorly executed escape from a burning warehouse, after the extractor they had been working with sold them out halfway through the job. What Arthur does recall is Eames waking him up at unrecognizable intervals to ask him long streams of meaningless questions while carding gentle fingers though his hair; and at one point leaning over the toilet, with a cold cloth on the back of his neck, thinking he was going to die.

Arthur suspects the Eames is implying that Arthur owes him a favour.

“If you were in LA, would you have gone to Cobb?” He’s not exactly sure why he asks – maybe it’s just curiosity.

He thinks he can see Eames’ smirk reflected in the bathtub faucet, “Cobb doesn’t like me near the children.”

Arthur knows it’s true. “That’s because you taught Philippa to count cards.”

“It’s a valuable skill!”

Arthur snorts softly, setting the sponge aside, “Not for a seven year old.”

“Just wait and see,” Eames winces as Arthur gives him an arm to boost himself out of the tub, hands him a towel once he’s steadied himself. Whatever drugs Mei Ling left for him have taking most of the shine of fever out of his eyes, but it’s easy to tell that he’s not all there, and won’t be until he’s able to wean himself off. “She’ll be leaps and bounds ahead of the other children when it counts.”

“Well I’m sure Cobb will thank you then.”

He shuttles Eames back to bed with a glass of water and another handful of pills, and as he’s pulling the blankets up around Eames’ shoulders, Eames says, “Regardless, darling, you always do take the best care of me.”

And then he’s out like a switch has been flipped in his brain. Arthur turns out the bedroom light and goes into the living room, finds a phone – not _his_ phone, but one of the many burners he uses for purposes best kept separate from his so-called real life – and starts making calls.

***

There are things about himself that Arthur isn’t proud of. It’s not necessarily a long list, but it _is_ a list, and sitting squarely at the top is his temper.

He might dress it up, in expensive, well-tailored suits and silk ties with smart cufflinks, but the truth is that underneath all that, he’s still the little boy who would fly off the handle at the slightest provocation and start yelling and swinging his fists.

On the other hand, Eames, for all that he looks like a thug, with his well-worked muscles, his poorly-chosen haircut and his dozens of tattoos; is entirely even-tempered, hardly ever even raises his voice.

Arthur’s only saving grace is that he’s better at hiding it now – wrapped up in layers of Armani, he can narrow his temper down to a laser sight, a single bore, and not take out any innocent bystanders.

It takes him a few days to find what he’s looking for, but he finds it.

***

Arthur signs in at the front desk of Howland Enterprises under one of his least favourite aliases; not because he thinks things will go badly, but because it's better to be safe than monumentally sorry. He knows that on the fifteenth floor, a man named Martinez is meeting with Howland's CEO to exchange information learned in a dream for a very large sum of money, and Arthur is there just in time to fall in step next to him as he leaves the private boardroom.

Martinez, for his part, doesn't falter when he sees Arthur, but his dark eyes get this glassy sheen of fear that Arthur finds immensely satisfying as he gently – oh so gently – takes his elbow and steers him into the men’s room near the elevators, locking the door behind them.

"Arthur..." Martinez starts, backing himself against the edge of the row of sinks, looking distinctly cornered. Arthur almost wishes he didn't enjoy the look of terror on his face so very much.

"You know, I always thought you were not that smart, Martinez," Arthur leans back against the door, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other, "but you must be good at math – or fractions at least."

He watches Martinez's Adam's apple bob up and down. He's put on some weight since Arthur saw him last, but obviously hasn't had a chance to update his wardrobe - his shirt looks tight around the collar, his suit-jacket stretched in the middle. "I don't..."

"Fewer team members mean fewer shares of the money – and you were _so_ fixated on the money. It wasn't Christian that sold us out in Prague," Arthur continues, not the least bit interested in excuses, though he's sure that Martinez has used the better part of eight months to assemble quite the collection. "Really I should have guessed – no one is _that_ good at hiding."

"I'll give you your share," Martinez promises.

"This isn't about my share."

Martinez chokes a little with panic, "I'll give Eames his share too. With interest."

Arthur does him the courtesy of taking a moment to pretend he's actually considering the offer. What he's really considering is whether or not he's really that transparent. He wonders how many people are out there who know that crossing Eames means crossing Arthur too.

"No," he says finally, "you should keep it. You could really use a new suit. But do yourself a favour and don't ever do another extraction. _Ever_. Because as of right now, the word is out on you, and certain – how do I put this? – interested parties may not be as forgiving as I am."

"For-forgiving?" Martinez straightens up like someone's driven a metal rod into his spine; his face twisting up in what Arthur can't be sure is panic or rage. It's likely both. "You've killed me – do you realize that? _Do you?_ How is this fair?!"

Arthur unlocks the bathroom door and walks through it without looking back over his shoulder. "I’m just as fair as you were."

***

It's nearly midnight when he arrives home to find Eames on the couch, cocooned in his grandmother's afghan, watching the party in Times Square, looking only slightly groggy, but better than he has in days.

"Welcome home, darling," Eames beams at him as he walks around the couch, lifting his feet so Arthur can take a seat underneath his legs. It seems rude to ask him to sit up, all things considered. Arthur still hasn't figured out how to get his blood out of the cushions; he'll probably just have to replace the whole couch. "What have you been up to this evening?"

"Just...finishing up a job."

"Not anything too strenuous, I hope."

Arthur looks over, and under the haze of good drugs and lingering fever, he's sure that Eames knows, which is embarrassing, really; but then he remembers Eames' hand on his forehead, holding his head up over the toilet bowl, Eames’ hands between his shoulder blades, rubbing in soothing circles.

"No," he says at last, "I didn't even break a sweat."

-End-

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] I Won't Tell If You Don't](https://archiveofourown.org/works/531742) by [kansouame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kansouame/pseuds/kansouame)




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